


Born in Blood and Gold

by preetkiran1016



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Angst, Blackwatch Jesse McCree, Blood and Violence, Eventual Smut, Jesse McCree is a Gay Disaster, Kitsune Hanzo Shimada, M/M, Riddles, Smut, Spirit Deals, Witch Hunts, Witch Jesse McCree, fever dream vibes, mention of other characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:28:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26725948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/preetkiran1016/pseuds/preetkiran1016
Summary: Jesse dreams in technicolor. In Gold and Vermillion Red, staining his hands and thighs. His lips and the hollow of his throat.He dreams of Blood and Riddles and Laughter.And yet, when he wakes, he does not remember.He sees only Ash.
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Comments: 10
Kudos: 44





	1. The Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you don’t get the girl and ride into the sunset. You get hung by your neck till dead for shit you didn’t do. 
> 
> Jesse’s bounty spoke to the latter.

Half-blinded, half-limping, half-dead— Jesse groaned; slumping into his little hidey hole, shaded in the hollow of an old, dead oak. The hastily wrapped bandage slipped from his forehead to his nose; fresh blood trickling into his eyes yet again. The distant baying of hounds spurs him on, fist tearing away the scraps of cloth and tying them around his pinky like a soulmate’s string, dyed red with his own essence.

He can’t afford to stay here.

There are darker things than mercenaries and their hounds drawn to blood and the magic thrumming in his bones.

He whispers, strained between blood and tobacco-stained teeth, gold lines shooting across his arms before fading away; curling into himself like dying embers. 

His spell was failing.

The rain somehow fit the mood of this merry little chase, Jesse thought, gritting his teeth. He swallowed each grunt of pain and whimper of agony as his legs buckled under him, one foot slipping in the rain-an-blood-soaked mud as he struggled to right himself. It fit the general atmosphere of his life, after the swiss base disaster and him losing everyone and everything he had... but well.

Sometimes you don’t get the girl and ride into the sunset. You get hung by your neck till dead for shit you didn’t do. 

Jesse’s bounty spoke to the latter.

Some Indeterminate time later, and having blacked out twice in the interim, black spots dancing in his field of vision. Jesse had his legs under him again, though he wasn’t sure for how long. He fell back against the oaken tree husk, listening for his approaching death. The misdirection spell had snapped like a frayed old rope, pulled to its last and trying to hold a load too heavy for its burden. Had Jesse the time, or the supplies, maybe he could cloak himself, distort his scent, even a portal... 

The hounds bayed.

McCree chuckled, soft, sonorous laughter turning manic. Peacekeeper hung quiet in her holster, long silenced, hungry for bullets he didn’t have. McCree pressed his palms to his face, blood smeared further into his beard.

He had to think... Dammit there had to be something!

_A flash of green hair, surrounded in an aura of angry red and black. Broken, battered tails enhanced with delicate cybernetics. Wrapped in riddles and blood, ritual and honor. A dastardly smirk._

_A demon parading in Man’s skin._

_“Did you think it would be that easy?” He purrs, a tail-edge sharp as sin- splits his eyebrow as it whips past. “Do not assume your magics can compare to mine Witch.”_

_McCree laughed, full-bellied as his Left eye filled Red._

_“Whatever ya’ say Darlin’.”_

_Kitsune._

_Genji._

Gasping, Jesse fell to his knees. Irises blazed gold as the man smiled, wide and feral as the coyotes that raised him.

Riddles and blood, huh?

Well, he had plenty of both.

The short, curved, ceremonial blade gleamed white in under the full moon’s light, even in the deluge of rain. For a single, bright, neon green hair wrapped tight round, the handle is stout black, deep as the void. The inscriptions along its length gleams ice-blue as he pressed into his palm. The pool of blood gathers in his hand and sits undisturbed by the rain, reflecting his wild, untamed face back toward Jesse, as he speaks the words that Genji told him so long ago- 

_“Remember- I am still weakened. I do not know if I will be able to come to your aide, Jesse. But if you are ever in need —”_

“Born in blood and gold, Born by chaos and fire, Born and reborn in lies and riddles-”

The sudden barking of hounds startled McCree, fumbling with his words. He could hear the mercenaries shouting, closing in on all sides. 

A beam of light passed overhead, flashlights passing back and forth, and he cursed.

“B-born and reborn in lies and riddles. For you we offer our blood, our gold. For you we offer chaos in our souls and on our tongues. For you I offer stories and riddles. For you I offer lies and games. For you I offer a boon for a boon.”

“I summon you, Shimada.” 

His blood, the small, unnaturally calm pool that it had been a few seconds ago began to glow, the same, hot, ice-blue of the blade’s inscription, the light near blinding. The pool rippled violently in Jesse’s hands, his own magic springing forth like a gentle stream to sooth the shaking of his arm, golden lines streaking up from his fingertips, reaching up with withered roots to wrap around his arm, his shoulder, his neck, his eyes. He could hear, in a muffled, underwater sort of way, the shouts of confusion and fear. The dogs yelping, crying, running-

All Jesse can taste is copper. All he can see is a halo of Ice blue, ringed in red and gold. All he can feel is an itch under his skin as the Sun in his palm grew brighter, brighter, brighter still—

Before existence winked out, along with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weeeeelllll i'm back on my bullshit  
> Welcome! To my previous readers....i am so sorry. To newcomers welcome!! I hope you enjoy the insanity!  
> Kudos and comments feed me! Thank you guys for the feedback!


	2. The Kitsune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Still wishing for a deal, mortal?” The spirit chuckled, deep and devastating.
> 
> “I never stopped.” Jesse grinned, a touch too wide, too tight. 
> 
> (aka: Jesse is a gay disaster.)

_He wakes… and the world is dulled._

_He has many, many eyes, for all the centuries he has lived, for all the furs and silks gathered at his waist, lost in the glittering rings decorating his ears, his sash, the galaxy he used to tie his hair or the nebula he ensnared on a lark, stolen from the northern dragon on a bet he could not unspeak._

_But they are all dull in the face of a bright star, glowing from the west. Calling, beckoning._

_Demanding._

_A deep, dark, alluring voice summons, rich with chaos and rolling with blood beckons; and who is he to deny a caller?_

_After all, he is famished._

O

Jesse comes-to seconds later with a gasp, sucking down air like a drowned man after being pulled from the remains of a sinking ship that just missed pulling another victim down with her current. 

He finds himself still on his knees, hands cupping a cooling pool of blood. The pounding rain turned to a fine mist in the summoning's aftermath and-

A stranger before him. 

He had intended to summon Genji.

He had made to summon his old friend but…

Well, never look a gift horse in the mouth.

The man standing in front of him was handsome in a severe way; dark, black hair, framed in silver streaks at his temples and tied up with a long, golden sash that near glows in the moonlight. Forehead furrowed, dark piercing eyes, a sharp, slightly turned up nose, like the man was accustomed to looking down on those he stepped on; and a pouty mouth, perfectly framed with a cupid's bow, down-turned into a nigh untouchable scowl framed in a trim goatee. He’s in some traditional Japanese garb that Jesse has no hope of knowing the name, though the make is clearly fine; along with a Bow and quiver strapped across the man’s back. Jesse grits his teeth, right hand planted firmly in the mud as his left wobbles, blood dribbling from the pool of sacrament. 

The stranger’s eyes bore into his, Dark umber into Golden amber, and Jesse aches; his bones rattling.

A witch knows better than to look past a kitsune’s glamour, if they want to keep their head.

Swallowing the lump of disappointment heavy in his throat (before _it_ swallows him whole), Jesse cleared his throat, voice raspy as his mouth split into a coyote grin.

_“There is something I seek._

_While it is bound, it chooses kings and peasants._

_When it is freed, it foretells war or woe._

_While it is bound, it propels men’s lusts and furies._

_When it is freed, it tumbles, falls, and fades._

_While it is bound, life will often thrive._

_When it is freed, death will often follow._

_What do I seek?”_

The man, creature, (kitsune, Jesse fervently hoped, he damn hoped he didn’t get some other random spirit or creature in this bargain summoning) huffed, a small, almost amused sound. 

He takes a step forward, and another. 

With the third he is towering over Jesse, intense, dangerous eyes never leaving his as the man knelt, taking Jesse’s left hand in both of his own. Jesse bit back a gasp, not fully succeeding as the kitsune brings his mouth to Jesse’s palm, swallowing the small offering as though it was the finest champagne before pulling back; a dribble of red dripping past his lips. 

_“I seek blood.”_ the man finally spoke, voice deep and smooth and reverberating. If he wasn’t glamoured Jesse would swear it was twice-echoed, maybe even trebled, you can tell with some of these spirits. “But perhaps I also seek entertainment. It has been long since I was summoned so brazenly... and even longer by a witch. Tell me, little one- who gave you that spell?” The kitsune’s eyes flashed, a bright, electric yellow; and Jesse could not help the thrill of excitement that flashed along his spine. 

The game wasn’t done yet. The bond unmade.

To speak now would give them the advantage.

He grinned back, all teeth before quipping. “ _When I come in, someone else leaves, I know everyone, yet no one knows me. I’ll meet you all only once in your life, causing mayhem and mischief and sorrowful strife. What am I?”_

“ _Death.”_ The kitsune spat back, annoyance creeping into his voice, though his touch remained gentle, fingers ghosting over Jesse’s sleeve, his shirt, tracing the letters of his belt and scowling as though it personally insulted him. “I do not understand why anyone would wear anything as ridiculous as this. BAMF, pah.”

Jesse ground his teeth, knowing the spirit was trying to goad him before starting the next riddle. “I live wi-”

“And your hat-”

Jesse slapped his hand over the kitsune’s mouth, sluggishly seeping wound directly over that aggravating mouth, eyes locking as he began again, words clear. “ _I may be simple, I may be complex; I may have a name, but no gender or sex; I am often a question, or statements as a setup; I tend to have an answer, ‘til you find it I won’t let up. What am I?”_

After a moment’s pause, Jesse removed his hand, wincing at the aftermath. The man’s face smeared with a bloody handprint, though he seems unperturbed; even licking his lips, eyes sparkling with mirth.

 _“A Riddle.”_ He purrs. And now, as the bond slides into place, a thrum of live wire under his skin. Not yet fully committed but not exposed, Jesse sighs, laughing as he pulls the aforementioned hat from his head. 

“And for your information, this hat is the best part o’ the outfit!” He chuckled, waving the leather brimmed monstrosity in the air.

“You are most sorely mistaken.” the spirit looked as though he was makin’ a face that Jesse would describe between ‘bitch-face’ or ‘constipated’.

“Yeah, well different opinions _Sweetheart_ , but in all seriousness, I called you here for a deal, an I’m hopin’ you’re up to making one with a witch.”

“I would not be here were I not.” the spirit hummed, and slowly, ever so slowly, wiped Jesse’s blood from his cheek with a thumb, and sucked it into his mouth.

Jesse feels his face warm. 

“Well, a man’s gotta ask.”

With a loud pop, the kitsune smirks, thumb dislodged from that wicked mouth, and Jesse can barely hold back a groan as the spirit rumbles. “Spirits have no such compunctions. You’ve passed our test. State your terms, Witch.”

This is far.. far more than Jesse expected. 

“I need protection from all harm, from spells, curses, mercenaries, assassins. More than that is after me. Darker than that.” Jesse sucked a breath through his teeth, finally letting himself feel the pain, the cuts and bruises, seeping, sluggish wounds staining his clothes and the ground around his legs. “I’ve been running for too long. I called for an old friend’s help... another kitsune. But here you came.” 

A warning. 

He wasn't alone in the world. 

Vanishings weren't common, but they weren't uncommon either. Tipping his hand at least solidified his safety.

“So I did.” The spirit chuckled, deep and melodious, eyes glowing brightest yellow. “You were... intriguing. Even now, there’s something more to you, witchling. I just cannot sense it.” The spirit leans closer still, their nose buried in Jesse’s neck. The spirit took in a deep breath, pressing up, _up, up,_ till his hands were buried in Jesse’s shirt, nose ghosting over Jesse’s cheekbone. Glowing Yellow gaze meeting Amber. “You are a curiosity. Friend of spirits. Enemy of others. Hunter yet Hunted.” 

“T-then-” Jesse mumbled, eyes darting down to full, smooth lips, still coated in his own blood. 

“Look.” The spirit commanded. 

“What?” 

“Look with your true sight.”

The command, given in his true, twice-echoed voice; deep and resonant and _beautiful_ ; had Jesse undone in a moment. Magic thrumming into place, eyes glowing Gold, he saw the kitsune in his truest form. 

Long, silken, White hair tied back by a galaxy of stars so dazzling he has to avert his eyes. Silken robes, heavy furs. Soft skin molten with golden, gorgeous tattoos only just exposed, disappearing up under the sleeves of his robes. 

Large, white, threatening tails, fluffy and warm, surrounding and cocooning them, all nine pushing Jesse into the spirit’s hold.

Jesse gasped, a soft, wondrous sound as Gold met Yellow. The Kitsune smirks, sharp as the ceremonial knife Genji gifted him years ago. 

“Still wishing for a deal, mortal?” The spirit chuckled, deep and devastating.

“I never stopped.” Jesse grinned, a touch too wide, too tight. 

“In return for your protection, I require entertainment. Riddles and stories. Whenever you call upon me.”

“So long as callin’ you is easier than what this time took, ain’t exactly got the juice for this each time.” Jesse frowned. “Though I ain’t complainin’, your price seems mighty low for my askin’ bid.”

“That can be easily remedied. Sigils are common amongst witches, are they not?” The Spirit chuckled, ignoring his prodding. “Though I can assume you are amenable?”

“Yeah. Yeah darlin. Let’s get the show on the road—” Jesse’s inner and outer monologue came to a screeching and complete halt; like the back end of a car wreck. 

The kitsune’s lips pressed against his, soft and firm, yet unyielding in their movement. He could taste the iron of his own blood, yet it didn’t seem to matter. Jesse groaned, lips parting at a questioning prod of the Kitsune’s tongue. They tasted of mint, of dark coffee and spice and iron. Jesse whined, twisting a hand in the spirit’s hair before trying to pull him closer. It wasn’t enough. The bond sealed closed. Iron. Fire. Binding. Settled under his skin. A burning pain seared his left palm, just over the barely closed would. He pulled from the kiss, a gasp of air just passing his lips-

Eyes darting down-

Before the spirit grasped his chin betwixt twin claws, drawn back to soft lips. 

His hand burned, searing down to the bone. Hot tears sprung from his eyes as the kitsune licked them away, pressing another open mouth kiss to Jesse’s throat as the burning subsided. 

“W-what-” Jesse croaked, voice wreaked. 

The kitsune chuckled, offering no recourse, no explanation save for another devastation, another kiss. Like a puppet with their strings cut, Jesse fell into the spirit, accepting the affection like an open balm. The kitsune’s laugh reverberated through their chest and into his, warming him throughout. He couldn’t even feel bothered to feel embarrassed. 

Eventually, the pain receded, and the kitsune pulled away. Chancing a glance down to his palm, Jesse’s momentary peace turned on its head. There was no wound, not even scar tissue remaining. Replaced with a familiar Ouroboros.

Two dragons chasing each other in eternity. 

He turned, to deliver an insult or an accusation; he didn’t know which, already half out of his lips, before realization dawned.

His kitsune was gone. 


	3. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He dreams.
> 
> He-who-has-no-home dreams, he dreams of his body pulling apart and breaking in ways it was not meant to break, reforming in ways it was not meant to form. His mouth fills with blood, choking on copper.
> 
> He wakes, heart thundering as it has not in centuries, and wonders.

The last leg of the route is devoid of hunters. Scared off or killed, Jesse isn’t sure, but he’s not quite caring either way. 

He spent the rest of that biting winter night under a clear, moonlit sky, shaded in his withered oak husk. He takes in the full, fat moon and laughs, a wry sound. Making deals with demons on full moons. And his mama always said he was a fool of a child. Running into things without thinking them out.

It was done now though, a deal sealed in blood and soul, traded in favors, sealed with a kiss. 

He could have sworn that was a Christian’s devil thing to do, but seems like kitsune liked to partake in the pleasures of the flesh on occasion.

He groans, unwinding the long strip of gauze he’d hastily wrapped around his forehead, wincing as it tore, fluttering to the mud-slick ground. Catalogues his wounds, or what remains of them; shirt comes away tacky from his side, clumped and sticky, fragrant with iron and sick.

The buckshot wound underneath, sealed shut. 

Laughter, unhinged and gleeful, wracked his body. Jesse stripped his shirt, tossing the ruined button up to the side. Calloused fingers ghosting over the fresh scar. Fingers traced the puckered skin, pink and raw, but whole. 

He can still feel the ghost of lead burying in his gut, gore gurgling up from beneath clasped hands. 

He finds a fresh scar bisecting his left eyebrow, a few new scraps along his knuckles already smoothed away, skin pink and raw. 

Nothing left of the chase he’d near died from. 

Protection indeed.

Digits caressed the lines of his palm. Amber eyes drinking in his newest tattoo.

A design he was all too familiar with.

Two dragons chasing one another, swallowing their tails in a battle for dominance eternal. Since time immemorial, that’s been the basic premise of any Ourobourus. Snakes, usually, in most mythos. Ranging from Egyptian to ancient Greek and bleeding to the far reaches of Hermeticism and Alchemy and thousands of others in between. But this one, this circle, etched in black and burned into his bones…

The memory of soft lips and a wicked tongue burned his cheeks, ears flaring red as color bloomed across his cheeks, eyes burning gold as the memory blazed.

Goddamn Kitsune.

Always asking for more than you could give.

Jesse groaned, curling up and slamming his eyes shut. 

Sleep came in fitful, half caught spurts. There’s vermillion staining his eyelids, low, rumbling laughter soft in his ear, a gentle caress-

He gasps awake too many times, grasping for something just out of reach.

He wakes, half-rested, half-alive, to a dawn smudged by early lights reds and orange-pinks. Morning dew weighing heavy, grass bending under its weight. A haze curled lazily around his shoulders, mist shifting, slipping through his fingers, shrouding the sun in a veil of shimmering white.

For a moment, he breathed in the calm, the silence. 

His things are already close, hat planted firmly atop wild hair as he shambles to two feet, fingers trailing along dying wood before bowing his head, eyes slipped shut.

He offers a prayer to  _ Mąʼii _ , to  _ Haashchʼééshzhiní,  _ tries to conjure Juniper sap, Yucca root and sun-bleached skulls in his mind’s eye, in place of particulars he does not have, poor as his preparations are. The words whispered through closed lips and split knuckles. Tongue twisted, words spilled rough over sacred rite, rusty from half-use and years of shame and guilt.

Still chasing after ghosts of a past he’s not yet outrun.

He offered a prayer to his Kitsune, a muted, gentle thing, a tug of a smile pulling at pug lips. Smooth Japanese over smoke-ridden voice box, hoping it met handsome ears and made them take note. 

A sigil burns the greying oak as he walks away, a gleaming loadstone to ore, should he let it thrum through him, pull him in as a moth is drawn to fire.

It fades as he walks away, each footfall letting the fire fade out, leaving behind nothing but a breeze and a set of dusty bootprints.

O

He finds his safe-house untouched by time and intruder, though the elements haven’t spared her their grace. Crumbling, aged timber sags inward, terrace gaping and creaking in the breeze. An owl hoots, having taken root in a busted-in window. Ivy creeps up and along the four walls, green and vibrant in their attempts to invade, and in their success. 

He circles the perimeter thrice, finding each charmed disk, gold, three inches in diameter and pulsing in time with his heartbeat, rooted deep in the earth, right where he put them. He chuckled, leaving them as they are, untouched; passing over their threshold.

A blink, and the film peeled from his eyes. The illusion passes and reveals a small, warm casita, draped in lovely oranges and red clay tile roof. A few hardy cacti lined the west-facing wall, though no ivy lives, small pink blooms gracing the largest succulent. 

He’d built her back up himself, from a hollowed-out shell of an abandoned craphole he’d found between running a thousand and one ops for Gabe and running down the dregs of his old haunts. It’s the best foxhole he’s got, between the spattering of safe-houses leftover from Blackwatch that he’d already locked down, and the only one that’s his and only his.

His security isn’t as elegant as Athena, hand scanner shiny ruby red before the door hissed open, but it does just fine; allowing him to grace the entrance with muddied boots over a dusty welcome mat. The door hisses shut, the only light a soft glow from the small kitchenette window. A few taped up cardboard boxes greet him in the corner, the small collection of furniture draped in dusty white sheets. The space is as small as it can be, kitchenette, bathroom with a shower he’d have to duck to get the top of his head wet in, and a single bedroom with a twin size he’s not sure even how the last owners got the frame in, wedged in so suredly, wall to wall, Jesse can’t get it out without destroying the plaster and at that point it wasn’t worth it.

It’s home. Or the closest thing to it. 

The boots come off first, dried, flaking mud making a mess of his entry way before he leaves them in a small pile, ruined socks plopped on top. 

He considered peeling out of his chaps and jeans right there, but with the way the fabric clung, he’d have better luck with the shower getting the blood out before the material gave up its quest to become one with his skin. 

There’re things to do before that though, security cameras to route, spellwork to lay and protections to cast.

Grumbling under his breath, he padded on chilled linoleum tiling into the kitchenette, setting his dirtied bag on the crowded counter; pushing aside the mixer he used twice and then forgot about the last time he had crashed here.

A crash, then pain shot through his toes, fire radiating along his foot as he yelped, jumping up like an odd impressionist flamingo and cursing.

The electric kettle stared up at him, blue chrome dull and dinged.

It enjoyed its place in the trash bin quite well, thank you very much.

Jesse didn’t know why he even had the damn thing. He has a normal kettle!

O

The video feed skips, grainy tape jumping as he slams his hand across the top of the small box. 

The feed jumps.

Jesse sighed, one hand running through his beard, scratching at his chin. Gold, black, and red inkwells open and spread across the room, new sigils painted in alternating colors along the perimeter, the camera lenses, the door, the windows. He draws new lines along the security feed’s monitor. 

If he could line the satellite, he would.

He’s protected as he’s going to get, shielded from all eyes and his own watching overhead.

In the scant few hours he’d been there, before he could even consider pulling out the smudge sticks and crystals and inks; he packed away the sheets, uncovered the furniture, and swept out the pile of dirt that collected over the three years he hadn’t been around. Turning on the water and flipping the circuit breakers was second fiddle after that, relighting the incense at his altars before getting down to work.

It was good to see the couch with the sure, red cushions again, contrasted against the red and gold Teec Nos Pos he’d found rummaging at a local flea market, heart lost to the design before his brain could catch up. A small piece of home, so far away.

It was the little things, the handmade quilts and novelty bear mugs he handpicked, fighting off little old-wizened ladies with rickety, sharp elbows that bit when they met his ribs. 

He had even found a dreamcatcher one day, from a small stand of a local territory, on a long, abandoned road. The mother’s wizened face had met his, cutting deeper and unearthing memories of sitting by the fire in  _ shimá sání _ ’ _ s _ lap, her shaking hands guiding his pudgy fingers around the string and feathers.

He paid triple for the simple black and sapphire round, Navajo tripping over his tongue in thanks.

Gabe would call him a fool for it, keeping so much sentimentality in a place he’d have to burn.  __

Jesse sighed, setting the fountain pen down, ink smudged into his fingers, black smears flecked in gold and red. Somehow, ink had crept down his forearm, streaked across a collarbone in a gory splash. The sigils sprung to life, squirming just out of the corner of his eye as he stood, jeans and chaps creaking, an audible ‘schlepp’ leaving a bloody ass-print on the just cleaned linoleum.

He really should’ve put down a towel. 

Ambling, bow-legged and stiff, into the small en-suite, he shuffles into the shower; the leather clinging in the steam and heat, peeling away as skin does for a butcher, till red runs clear and he’s naked as the day he was born, scouring his hair of dirt and grime, spine bent and steam filling the room, skin cleaned of blood and dirt and mud. He scrubbed hard enough to remove a full layer of skin, flushed pink and breathless.

The scalding water trickled off, cold spraying Jesse cruelly, a shout tearing from his lips before he slammed the faucet off, water dripping to a slow stop.

He shivered, towel dragging through his chest hair before he wrapped it loose around knobby hips. 

Fog encroached on the mirror and Jese sighed, wiping the surface and staring at his reflection.

His hair had become long, brushing against his collarbones in unruly strings of brown, and now that he could see it, his beard was a tangled mess. Grimacing, he washes his mouth with mint, opens the cupboard, pulls out his shaving kit, gets out his straight razor, and gets to work, trimming down the rough fringes. 

Tapping the leather wrapped handle against the sink, Jesse smirked, winking at himself and preening in the mirror. He was a damn handsome son of a gun, when he put the effort in.

He wondered what the spirit thought, looking at his ragged-ass.

“Must not’ve been that bad,” he hummed “kissed me anyhow.”

He shook his head, hair shaking out water like a wet dog.

“Nah… man was making a deal… that’s all it was.”

That’s all it was.

O

Dressed down to a soft cotton pair of boxers. Jesse bit at his lip, worrying the skin. 

Drawing blood.

Mixed spices waft through the house, a gold and red geometric outline creeping across the ceramic pestle and mortar abandoned atop the kitchenette counter. The smell nudges out memories of a roaring hearth and a warm, sturdy pair of arms, wrinkled from age. Strong as steel. Silver grey tresses, tames into a plait, laid against a sturdy shoulder.

Screams and words left unsaid.

Jesse grumbled, shoving the ugly bits back into their box, locking it away as he left the shelter of the bathroom, bare feet across a bright red rug, picking up the small mortar. 

The tincture stared back. 

He hums, words familiar, gentle yet deep-rooted, layering  _ shimá sání’s  _ and his maternal ancestors’ voices over his heart, thrumming through his soul and running gold across his skin again, though now the color flickers, weakened. The pestle sings, oil mixes through herb and crushed spice, singing the air with smoke unburned. A hitched breath, hesitation.

Now or never.

Thumbs sweep up the mixture, red paint pressed against closed eyelids and along the arch of a cupid’s bow, stinging the open wound, tinged in iron. 

Along his collarbones, coating his palms.

It matts his moustache, clumps against his lashes. The bitter smell of Sea Holly mixed with the mint and sage of Wormwood is a dizzying array, though he pushes on.

It burns, sinking into the skin, red falling away, shimmers of gold imprinted behind.

It starts, slow, at first, and then slams into his skull, leaves his chest caved in, breathless. Fangs rattling in their roots.

Shifting, stretching, bones: crack, scream, reform.

Amber eyes widen, roll back, white exposed, filling with gold.

Then blood red.

Then pitch.

Grinding under his skin, knobs holding firm, shape holding spectre tight in form, magic thrashing in place as he howled. 

Gold shoots turned blood red, skin settling under a shape, one not fully Jesse, though not un-him, shifting, twisting.

Time bends. 

This, too, passes.

Bones shift, twist, snap into position yet again, vibrating down to his marrow and trembling in the aftermath. Blood red vines choking skin turning to soft, pliable gold, withdrawing to his eyes and palm, circling the new sigil. Runes shining dark indigo against the shine of his chest, tracing his ribs and along his hips, burning cold as Jesse collapsed. He goes languid, sprawled across the rug, wool scratchy reformed skin.

He drifts as one moment passes to another.

O

He does not dream.

O

_ He dreams. _

He-who-has-no-home dreams, he dreams of his body pulling apart and breaking in ways it was not meant to break, reforming in ways it was not meant to form. His mouth fills with blood, choking on copper and rust with fangs too mammoth for his jaws; cutting his tongue, cheeks, lips. He howls, ribs tearing through his chest and leaving a gory imprint, a deadly cage, adorned in sigils of great love. His essence shakes apart and together in the same instance, a black hole come asunder before the pain fades as fast it came on, dissolving as he falls back-

He wakes, heart thundering as it has not in centuries, and wonders.

O

Jesse groaned, joints creaking in protest before rolling over and stumbling to his feet. 

The wooden window slats leave lines of blue, shining bright across his face like a spell intended but left unfinished. The day turned to night.

His head swims, vision swims, everything swims. His brain stuffed with cotton, fuzzy and wobbling around the edges. Takes a step. Finds himself on his knees, elbows digging into his ribs, cold sweat popping up along his brow and down his chest like gooseflesh despite the casita’s heating cranked up to max, the desert wind howling against the windows. They rattle, shaking in the breeze.

Coyote’s wail.

Jesse snarls.

He crawls to the kitchenette, one hand clawing ahead of the other. Pries open a cabinet, standard ration MRE’s falling into his lap. He chuckles, collapsing to the floor in a pile of exhausted Cowboy. 

He doesn’t know if he passes out, but he wakes up again after a few hours, eyes heavy with hunger and spine protesting at the odd angle. Eventually, he leans against the wall, peeling lids off and shovels food in his face, chomping down and swallowing too fast, cheeks ballooning out like chipmunks. 

Choking on an approximation of refried beans and ham was worth the satisfaction, guts relaxing, the knots detangling as he swallows each spoonful followed by gulps of lukewarm water.

Stomach devils appeased, he struggled to his feet, leaning against the wall and makes his way back to the bedroom, stumbling and nearly tripping over the couch on the way to the bedroom. 

He falls into soft quilts and pillows, wrapped in warmth and fire before he drifts off yet again.

O

_ Sitting atop sky-high spires, the Spanish sea glittering out in an endless glittering indigo void, blocked against a ball of yellow flame and pink smoke.  _

_ His sigils burn black against the horizon, suspended like a fly in amber, before a sharp gust of wind wipes away the paint. _

_ There’s no need for greeting as Genji sidles up, rumbling a laugh deep in his throat, though copies a growl in McCree’s ear. His eyes cut a dangerous mean, flashing emerald in the low light.  _

_ “Practicing your finger painting?” _

_ He paused, restless fingers pausing, pinkie caught in the hole he’d been making bigger in his Levi’s. _

_ “Care to join me?” McCree offers, inkwell’s level dipping low between crossed legs. “I’ve got enough for a few rounds.” _

_ The kitsune sits, tails an angry burr at his side.  _

_ “Continue.” _

_ Jesse chuckled, dipping his fountain pen, droplets quivering, suspended in a moment before a slash of violence cuts ozone pitch. _

_ Time bends- half-light glistening violet through the letters, tenuous thin as spun sugar. He’s half sure the demon’s turned to stone when the fox moves, a swan cutting through water; claws dipping in slick ink before splattering savagely against the air, an image taking shape. _

_ Two dragons chasing each other in eternity.  _

_ There are no words after that, nor are there any for many fortnights after. _

O

Waking from his 36-hour ritual nap, dreams just off the edge of his conscious, merged with memories better left forgotten, Jesse groaned. Hungry and dazed, sweating buckets and burrito’d into his fleece blankets and soft cotton quilts, cow-licks plastered to his forehead and mouth dry as the Sahara was an uncomfortable experience, but Jesse managed, falling out of the covers ass first. 

The floor shook under the force, communicator falling from a rickety side table, landing on the thin, bedroom carpet with a soft ‘thud’.

The ritual took too much energy, too much time to recover. He hadn’t realized how long he’d gone without it. Magic eking out, like steam off sauna rocks, sapping his energy after months and months on the run. To attempt it would’ve been a death sentence. There was no time for restoration, reformation, not unprotected out in the open.

Not hunted.

Now though... Jesse sighed, right thumb tracing his new sigil. The brand burns, a reminder, a promise.

A threat.

_ Shimada. _

Jesse blinked.

Hold up.

He snatched the communicator from its lonely, abandoned spot on the carpet, switching it on and flipping through the functions.

Genji hasn’t answered.

Didn’t answer for the past two days.

Well shit.

The whole situation just became more complicated, and his damn friend was off grid. Probably somewhere in the spirit realm he liked to vague shit-talk about when he wanted to be confusing and melodramatic. From what little he knew, Genji’d gone off on a revenge quest in the months leading up to the sheer nosedive Petras act. He hadn’t heard from him since. All he could do at this point was wait for the anime protagonist knock-off to pop up. 

In the meantime, he had work to do.

Jesse grinned, coyote grin wide and dangerous as he shambled to his feet. 

He has a new patron, after all. 

O

In another place, another time, under falling sakura petals and bloodied scrolls, two demons clash in a blaze of gold and emerald and sapphire. There is sorrow and anger and grief.

He walked into his home-no-longer, guised in human form. Gates thrown open, their mark, once painted in glorious golds and blues, now faded to soft grey. The courtyards, the engawas, the bell-house, all fell quiet in the early spring night. Halls abandoned- once pristine white Shōji yellowed and tattered, paled and curled over, wood warped over, frames bending from their once stiff posture.

Once, these halls had been bursting with life, servants, cooks, gardeners, accountants, artisans, and samurai bustled back and forth, each one a burst of color and vitality.

Now, centuries later, after the rise and fall of emperors, his clan lay in ruin.

By his own claw, he muses.

Gliding over ruined floors, past shattered pillars and plundered treasuries, he comes to a stop, stilled in front of the very scroll.

Blood splattered, cut from lower border up, into the center, and when he closes his eyes, he can remember the first cut- Genji’s back turned-

The-kin-slayer slips into sieza, a bowl of offering, fresh sacrament, a sparrow feather, incense.

Paltry, truly. 

But what else was there to be done? Other than to come, year after year. 

The incense is barely lit, sandalwood smoke floating around his gold scarf, glamor flickering in the low light. 

He was not alone.

A presence in the broken rafters above, hidden. 

Waiting.

But yet... that aura…

He scoffed, eyes closed and hands folded in prayer. “You are not the first to come for my head, and you will not be the last. Leave before I remove yours.”

The intruder fell down, landing softly, a ghost of a whisper.

He does not move.

“You are bold to return to Shimada castle, to a place of ghosts.”

Impudent brat.

“This was once my home. Did your master not tell you who I was?!” He snarls, drawing an arrow and launching it at the assassin.

The cyborg dodges, sleek armor glowing green in the weak crescent moonlight as he speaks. “I know who you are. I know you return here, every year, on the same day, for decades. You risk such attention to honor someone you murdered!”

In a moment, three shuriken embedded themselves in the wall above his head, and the-man-with-no-name growls, subsonic and rumbling, the ground vibrating with his rage.

“ _ You know nothing of what happened! _ ”

Another arrow, and then another, and the assassin falls to the lower floor, avoiding his scatter arrow, deflecting the shards before pausing. 

He holstered his wakizashi, head tilted (like a bird), before speeding around to the castle’s terrace.

Kin-slayer knew when he was being baited.

He did not care.

He followed, arrow nocked, eyes shifting side to side, glowing bright yellow and fangs extending past his lips.

He would slit this insolent brat from groin to gullet.

A mocking voice floated from behind him. “I know you tell yourself that your brother disobeyed, that you had to kill him to maintain order. To maintain your power. That it was your duty.”

He launched another arrow, snarling as the intruder deflected yet again. “It was my duty, and my burden. That does not mean I do not honor him!”

“You think you honor your brother, Genji, with incense and blood offerings? Honor resides in one’s actions.”

“You dare to lecture me about honor? You are not worthy to say his name!”

His glamor drops, and He-who-has-no-name roars, lunging, Stormbow forgotten, claws half-dug into skin and metal, drawing ichor. His brother, his death, his spectre, shrouded in armor and tails-

Tails he had ripped from his back, bloody and red, a death sentence-

Restored. 

Weaved with cybernetics and glowing runes, silver in the moonlight. 

He’s savage, snarling, jaw pried wide and snapping at armored throat, unhinged and feral. 

Unthinking.

But no armor can hide his aura, his scent.

He  _ aches. _

They break apart, claws and fangs traded for bow and sword, and they clash. 

The-Kin-killer pulls away, launching an arrow, scrambling backwards, trying to gain distance. He wished to put an arrow in that throat, deny the voice any more of his guilt, his sorrows, and run, run far, far away and never think of this again. To gorge himself and forget-

He’s not given the chance- the imposter is upon him in the time of two arrows loosed, deflected without a thought, and he’s forced to use Stormbow as a melee weapon, crossing against blade with a sweet ringing that pains his ears. He’s slammed into the balcony, tipping precariously over the edge, wooden handrail digging into his shoulder. 

Ryūichi Moji sings, slamming into Stormbow, and oh- this imposter shall die a slow, slow death- for stealing his fallen brother’s weapon- for sullying his memory-

More-so than he had done-

They grapple, He-who-has-no-kin flipping the imposter from his perch atop his chest, rolling forward, plucking the last arrow from its home in the ground and drawing, summoning his full strength, nine tails glowing a blazing, bright, white-gold.

No matter that his familiars lay silent.

That they had for decades.

He releases.

The imposter cuts his arrow asunder, tails glowing green as the rolling fields, as the deep amazon. As the willows besides their home, branches waving in the summer wind and—

He snarls, lunging forward, the clone’s words lost, drowned in the noise of his own mind, claws out and ready to bury themselves in the imposter’s guts and disembowel, to rend and tear and  _ ruin. _

He never reaches his goal, caught, hair snagged in a fist of metal and Ryūichi Moji sitting at his neck.

“Do it then.” He says, eyes slipping shut. “Kill me.”

The imposter laughs, low and dark, Ryūichi Moji pressing ever closer before pulling away, her smile imprinted against his skin.

“No. I will not grant you the death you wish for. You still have a purpose in this life, brother.”

“No. No, no, no.” He hisses. “You are not—my brother is dead by my hand,”

The mask comes off, removed by chrome plated fingers, and he can only gape, as Genji’s scarred face comes into view.

He is helpless but to stare.

Soft brown eyes. He remembered and  _ ached _ .

“I am.” not-Genji says. “Hanzo—”

“No. No, I am not worthy of a name, no longer.”

Genji stared at him, eyes flashing emerald before the mask clicked back into place. “I have accepted what I’ve become, and I have forgiven you. Now you must forgive yourself brother.”

He snarled, fangs unsheathed yet again, eyes glowing in rage. 

“Life is not like the stories our father told us. You are a fool for believing it so!”

“Perhaps I am a fool to think that there is still hope for you, but I do. Think on that, brother.”

The kin-slayer sputtered, helpless to watch as Genji vanished in a puff of smoke. 

He sat there, hollow in his agony, in his grief, in his incredulity.

Lost.

And his bond began to burn. 


End file.
